Page 11 of Forbidden Fire

M arissa awoke with a sense of disorientation. She opened her eyes to see her fingers stretched over embroidered cream sheets. Across the room, she could see the door to the bathroom slightly ajar. The morning light was streaming through the etched and beveled windows, and the entire room was cast in a soft glow.

The night’s sleep had done her a world of good, and she smiled slowly. This was all hers. These rooms were her domain. With their soft and subtle beauty, they were where she lived.

She rose, frowning for a moment as she tried to remember taking off her shoes, then she shrugged. She had been so very tired, she couldn’t even remember falling asleep.

Her bags were still on the floor at the foot of the bed. She rose, found her overnight case and searched diligently for her toothbrush and cosmetics, then headed into the bath. She doused her face and scrubbed her teeth and smiled to the image in the mirror over the porcelain sink. “A prison not so tortuous, I think!” she told herself. She was ready to wrestle with Ian once again this morning. With a vengeance.

She turned on the gold spigots for the tub, thinking of home. This house offered everything. At Uncle Theo’s, a bath had been a time-consuming chore. She had to heat endless pots of water, drag out the tub, fill the tub, empty the tub! Even at the manor there had been no running water. There had been several “necessary” rooms, but nothing like this.

She took bubble bath from the cabinet and added it liberally to the water. Then she quickly disrobed and stepped into the tub, luxuriating in the heat.

The bubbles rose around her and she was delighted. She sank down as the water rose, drenching her hair, rubbing her scalp. She inhaled the sweet rose scent of the bubbles and doused herself again, feeling like a child. Then, with a soft sigh, she settled back, her head resting on the edge of the tub, her arms elegantly draped over the sides.

“Not so horrid a prison,” she murmured. And she lifted a hand, pointing as she might to make something clear to a schoolboy. “Mr. Ian Tremayne will be made to see that it cannot be had both ways, and then I think that I shall settle in very nicely! He will be put in his place, I swear it!”

“Really?”

The quiet, amused challenge of his voice coming from behind her was the greatest surprise of her life. She almost bolted from the bubbles, then managed to twist around beneath them to stare at him where he leaned against the door frame, his arms casually crossed, brows arched as he stared at her. He was dressed for business in a pin-striped suit with a gray silk vest and white pleated shirt beneath. Hatless, and with the errant lock of hair falling over his forehead, he was striking. Her heart began to pound, and she forgot for a moment that she was ready to wrestle with him. He was definitely one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Yet it wasn’t just his looks that made him so arresting; it was that air of confidence, the energy, the tension. There was danger in his eyes, in the fire within them. And despite her pride, it was far too easy to flicker close to the flames burning there.

She remembered her pride at last. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded sharply.

“Oh, just listening to how you’ll put me in my place,” he replied with a casual smile.

Flames crept to her cheeks, but she remembered she was the one with the right to be indignant. “These are my private quarters—”

“I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”

“Then you weren’t given leave to enter!”

“You might have been drowning here, my love. I had to make sure you were all right. Indeed, I thought at first that you were drowning, since your head was lost in the foam.”

“Well, I wasn’t drowning, and I’m quite all right, and you’ve no business in here at all!”

“I own the house.”

“But you gave me the bath!”

“I did not give it to you!” he protested. “I loaned it to you.” He took two long strides into the room and knelt beside the porcelain tub. Marissa tried to maintain her dignity by drawing the bubbles around her.

They were breaking up at an alarming pace.

She narrowed her eyes. “Out!” she told him sharply.

“I really don’t understand your distress,” he said, a leisurely smile curling his lip. “We’re adults, man and wife—be honest here! I’ve seen in the naked flesh all that you would hide behind those elusive bubbles—”

“In the dark, in London, a long time ago—and during a mistake, which you yourself apologized for!” she interrupted, her temper growing. He was so near. And the curve of his smile and the humor in his eyes were nearly akin to tenderness.

He touched her, drawing a soft line from her throat to her shoulder. “It was not so dark, what matters the city, not so long ago, and an apology would do nothing to alter my memory of every piece of your—of you. Dear Lord, those bubbles do not last long when you want them to, do they?”

If she was losing them anyway, Marissa determined in a flash of fury, she might as well use them well. She dipped a hand into the water and sent a spray of bubbles flying onto his face and chest. She was rewarded with a sharp oath and a sea of sputtering. “Marissa, you little witch—”

She leaped up, thinking to escape, remembered she was naked, and decided she had best run anyway.

He caught her just as she reached the bedroom. His hands slid over the length of her flesh, but she eluded him, for the soap that remained on her was slick and slippery. “No!” she shrieked, torn between panic and laughter.

“You’ve destroyed my suit!” he thundered.

“You destroyed my bath, and my privacy!” she retorted. The bed was behind her. She turned to grab the sheet, but he was moving again, striding quickly across the room. He caught her with an energy that sent them both flying down upon her beautiful bed. She was soft and slippery, the essence of the bubbles still upon her flesh.

“Off!” she commanded. “Ian, you rake—”

“Ah, but you were well warned to stay away!”

“I was in my own bath!”

“You saw fit to wage war.”

“I saw fit to defend myself!”

She had entered this marriage knowing everything.

But the texture of his tongue upon her flesh was rough and sleek and exciting, and the flames that had touched his eyes were growing to burst into a fire at the center of her being. She could not allow this.

This was too much like falling in love with him. She seemed to need the laughter in his eyes, the curve of his smile. She hated him because he had others in his life, and not because of the way he had manipulated her own life.

His kiss moved lower. His tongue tasted a patch of bubbles that remained high upon her breast. His fingers curled over hers and entwined, and his kiss moved farther down. Slowly. So slowly. The tip of his tongue just moving over her naked flesh, lower and lower upon her breast.

“You—you do not want me,” she reminded him.

His face lay within the valley of her breasts. He paused, pressing a kiss there, running his tongue lightly over that valley. She ached for more. Longing to have him take her deeply into his mouth. She wanted to run her fingers into the darkness of his hair and draw his face to hers and kiss his lips. And she wanted to strip away the soaked pin-striped suit and feel the naked tension of his body.

She swallowed hard and repeated her words, “You do not want me here, Ian. Ian!” She tried to escape his hold, twisting in a fury. But she could not fight his weight and his hold, and he had not released her. As she twisted she was only wedging herself more closely to him. His lips were pressed deeply against her breast, and the fire raged more deeply between her thighs. “Ian!” Taut and still, she called his name.

He was silent for a long moment. Then the husky, muffled velvet of his voice came to her. “Ah, but I do want you,” he murmured.

“Let me go!”

“Is that what you want?”

His head rose above hers. There was no laughter in his eyes, only darkness. His features were tense, his jaw hard as his gaze sought hers.

“Ian—”

“What of you, Marissa? Do you want me?”

She caught her breath, unable to speak. His eyes were dark and demanding upon hers. This time they were not doing battle, nor were they jesting. And yet she was too afraid to answer him. She could not spill out her feelings, even if she could completely understand them herself. Then they came clear to her.

Love me! she wanted to cry out. For I have fallen in love with you, in love with a memory, perhaps. And even in love with the anger and the challenge and the arrogance. For I’ve seen the care, and the tenderness, too. And I’ve seen the beauty of what can lie between two people, and I never knew that my heart ached for that loving, too.

But he could not love her. He was in love with a ghost, and he made love with faceless women who did not count.

And she couldn’t say she loved him, for she was living a lie. She wasn’t the woman he thought he had married.

And still she wanted to touch his face, to draw it to hers, to taste his lips upon hers.

She did. She reached out, her fingertips falling upon the curve of his cheek and the bronzed contours of his face. Then she cried out, alarmed at herself, incredulous that she could forget her pride.

“No!” She twisted from beneath him, and he let her go. She sat with her back to him, her spine straight but her head lowered. “No!” she said, and the sound was more desperate than angry.

Not when you long for a dead woman! she added silently. Not when I would be nothing more than a dance-hall girl. She couldn’t say those things to him.

“And I meant to taunt you!” he murmured.

She looked at him. He was propped on one elbow, watching her with a wry smile.

“Pardon?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.” His eyes closed, and a ragged shudder swept his body. He stood, and to her amazement he stripped the cover from the bed with a fluid motion and set it around her shoulders. “Breakfast is a buffet downstairs. We do share the dining room, since I haven’t two, I’m afraid. We need to get started, it’s a busy morning. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

She rose uncertainly, holding the cover around her. He grinned, came to her and stared into her eyes, then gave her a firm smack on the derriere. “Get cracking, lady. I’m American nouveau riche, a Yank, remember, not British gentry. I have to work to maintain my bank accounts.”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but left her, slipping through to his own room. She rose and followed him, meaning to lock the door. But she hesitated and did not touch the lock.

She turned pensively instead, and walked slowly to the bathroom to dress.

Ten minutes later she found him in the dining room.

A walk down the curving stairway brought her to the entry. She discovered, by walking to her left, that the dining room was there, beyond a large parlor with huge bay windows looking down the lawn to the street. Ian was sitting at the end of the table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. He looked up when she arrived. He had changed into a navy suit with a paisley vest, and his errant hair had been combed.

“Biscuits and eggs are on the buffet,” he told her, and he reached across the table, where a place had been set for her, and picked up her cup. A coffee urn was sitting before him, and he looked at her before pouring from it. “Would you prefer tea?”

She shook her head and slid into her seat. “Coffee is fine, thank you.”

He poured her coffee. “You need to eat something. We’ll be out all day.”

“I’m not very hungry—”

“You need to eat. Lee, would you kindly fix Mrs. Tremayne a plate?”

Marissa started, unaware that the Chinese woman had been standing in the corner. Lee came forward to do as she was bidden, and Marissa stood, determined that she wouldn’t require any help from Lee.

“Thank you, Lee. I can manage myself.”

Exotic dark eyes touched her for a moment, their hostility still evident, then they fell as Lee bowed her head. “As you wish, Mrs. Tremayne.”

Marissa walked to the buffet and helped herself to fried eggs and biscuits and bacon and sat at the table. She had come down intending to be as mature and reasonable as she could. She had wanted to talk, to form some kind of a livable relationship between them.

But with Lee in the corner of the room, she couldn’t talk. She sipped her coffee, which was delicious, and bit gingerly into a piece of bacon.

“I’ll try to show you and the O’Briens something of the city this morning,” Ian said, glancing at his paper as he spoke. “But I’ll need to bring James into the emporium after lunch, and I’ve an appointment myself. John will be at your disposal to drive you around should you choose.”

Lee cleared her throat, as if waiting for permission to speak. Ian glanced her way curiously.

“Perhaps Mrs. Tremayne and her friend would prefer exploring on their own. The cable cars are wonderful.”

“Yes, Lee, they are. But perhaps they should become a little more familiar with their surroundings before exploring on their own. It’s a beautiful city—it can be a dangerous one, too.”

Marissa buttered a biscuit, smiling sweetly as a touch of resentment rose within her. “Um. I understand that the Barbary Coast offers all manner of entertainment, theaters and the like.”

“I think you are mainly thinking of years past, when brothels were thicker than flies, my dear.”

“They’ve all gone then?” Marissa queried innocently.

His eyes were hard. He sipped his coffee, then set his cup down. He leaned forward with a pleasant smile. “Not at all. But then, my love, I mean to show you the finer sights of your new city. Are you ready?”

She wasn’t ready at all, but it was apparent that he was determined to go. He was on his feet, pulling her chair out for her. “Tell John to meet us at the emporium around two, Lee, to pick up Mrs. Tremayne and Mrs. O’Brien.”

Lee nodded. “Will you dine at home, Mr. Tremayne?”

“Yes, we’ll be home for dinner, thank you. Come on, Marissa, let’s go.”

He caught her hand and led her to the foyer, then frowned. “You’ll need a cloak of some kind. The weather here changes quickly. Hurry.”

She raced up the stairs and dug in her bags for a lightweight cape, then swept up her small reticule with her comb and money. She couldn’t have moved faster, but when she reached the entry, he was pacing.

He pushed open the front door and led her down the steps. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll bring out the car.”

“The car?” she asked. He’d picked her up in a carriage. In all her life, she’d never been in a motorcar.

He smiled. “You’re not afraid of automobiles?”

“No, no, of course not.” She hurried after him, almost crashing into his back when he stopped.

“I said I’d pick you up.”

“I know, but I’m anxious to see it.”

“It?” He smiled. “Them, my dear.” He started walking again, around the main house to the carriage house. The doors were open. To the left were stalls with horses, among them the matching blacks that had drawn the carriage that had come for them at the station. Near the stalls were several different carriages from a row of three motorcars, all shining even in the dim light.

She stared at them until he beckoned to her. “Do you know much about them?” he asked her.

She shook her head.

Ian caught her hand and took her to the rear of the carriage house, to an automobile painted a deep green. It barely resembled a carriage, and had a huge nose. “She’s French,” he told Marissa. “A Levassor-Panhard, with her Daimler motor here in front.” Marissa paused to study the vehicle, but he was already moving on to the next. She followed after him. “This is a Renault, also French. And in front of us is an American car, a 1901 Olds.” He opened the passenger door and took her hand, helping her up. She smiled with excitement. Perhaps her smile was contagious, for he laughed. “Had I only known you would have come here without the slightest argument if I had commented on the automobiles!”

He cranked the engine. Marissa jumped as the auto burst into life, then chugged its way out of the carriage house and down the driveway. The breeze swept by her and she turned to him. “It’s wonderful! But how very odd! I had thought that you were such an avid horseman. Why, you were riding when I saw you—”

She broke off quickly, hoping he did not remember the time she was thinking about, when he had come riding up so heatedly to the Squire’s the year before the Squire died. She tried desperately to remember if he had ridden to meet her in the city of London, but her mind had gone blank, and she could feel a nervous flush rising to her cheeks.

“Was I riding?” he said.

“Oh, maybe I was wrong. I don’t remember,” she said quickly, looking at the road.

“I do love horses. And I’ve a few magnificent animals in my stalls.”

“I know. The blacks are gorgeous.”

“I’ve riding horses, too.” He shrugged. “I love horses, but I do see motor vehicles as the way of the future. Eventually, I daresay, the cars will outnumber the horses.”

They had come to the caretakers’ cottage. Mary appeared at the front door, waved, then reappeared with Jimmy behind her. Both were as awed with the Olds as Marissa had been, and Ian allowed them the time to walk around it as he answered Jimmy’s questions about fuel and speed and mileage. Then the two crawled into the back, and Ian told them they had a little time, and he’d show them all he could of the city of San Francisco.

From Nob Hill they drove to Union Street and Pacific Heights, then by Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill. They took a detour through Chinatown, then headed toward the waterfront. Along the road, Ian stopped the car atop a hill where they could look down on much of the city. They left the car to stand on the cliff, and Marissa was startled when Ian’s hands fell on her shoulders and he pointed out at the city, lightly dusted in fog this morning. Marissa felt a glow of warmth. The morning had been pleasant, she thought. Her excitement over the Olds had pleased him, it seemed. It almost had seemed as if they might be friends this morning. But she couldn’t let that happen. She was too haunted by the life he had led, by the things she didn’t know—and by the things she hadn’t told him.

“It’s so beautiful!” Mary said, slipping her arm around Jimmy’s waist.

Ian released Marissa and turned to the car. “Think you’ll adjust?” he asked Jimmy jovially as they all got back in.

“Aye, that I will. It’s a wonderful place, and you’re proud of it, I think, Mr. Tremayne,” Jimmy replied.

A slow smile curved Ian’s lip. “That I am indeed, Jimmy. She’s a grand place, never too hot, never too cold.”

“Paradise,” Marissa murmured.

“Yes, except for—”

He broke off, frowning.

Except for the tremors that sometimes shook the earth, he added silently.

He shrugged. He didn’t know why he had avoided mention of the quakes that had shaken the city in 1865. Except that his meeting this afternoon was with the businessmen who wanted to build by the waterfront, in the landfill area.

“Except for what?” Marissa asked him.

“There are no exceptions,” he said.

“But you just said—”

He was suddenly curt and impatient. “It’s late. We must hurry if you want lunch before going to the emporium.”

Marissa fell silent. Ian was quiet as they drove down the hill, then entered the city traffic. Horse-drawn conveyances vied for space with the autos, and Marissa saw her first trolley car. Then Ian pulled up by a curb, and they exited the car. She didn’t need him to point out the emporium—it couldn’t be missed.

It was a large three-storied building with “Tremayne’s” written across the bricks of the top floor in large black letters. But Ian took her arm, guiding her away from it. “We’ll lunch here.”

There was a large building in front of them. One window advertised the telegraph company, another advertised a bank. Between them was a doorway leading to Antoine’s. Ian led them in.

A stairway went to an elegant basement dining area. Snowy white cloths adorned the tables, and candles were set in glass and brass holders. There was rich carpeting on the floor, and the aromas that mingled in the air were appealing. The diners were more arresting in their finery than the restaurant. Ladies in silks and taffetas with elegant little feathered hats sat across from men in their business best. A pianist played soft music from a dais, and the black-jacketed waiters were as proper as the clientele.

The ma?tre d’ knew Ian well, and led them to a table by a railing overlooking the piano. He greeted Ian by name, and didn’t try to hide his excitement at seeing Marissa.

“Madame Tremayne, je pense, monsieur ?”

“Yes, Jacques, this is my wife. Marissa, Jacques. And Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien. If you’re ever wandering around and in need of a meal, come see Jacques. He will see that you are well cared for, whatever the rush. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”

“Oh, mais oui !” Jacques agreed. The handsome little Frenchman was smiling widely, with a keen sense of humor and excitement about him. As he seated them and handed them menus, he added, “Madame Tremayne is very young, and very beautiful. Elle est très belle !”

Marissa felt a soft blush touching her cheeks as Ian looked at her, too, as if debating the Frenchman’s words.

“Yes,” he agreed wryly. “She’s young.”

Marissa had thought that Jimmy might plunge in with something complimentary in her defense, but Jimmy was still busy staring around the restaurant, while Mary was studying her menu.

“Jacques, what on earth is going on with you today?” Ian demanded, exasperated.

“Nothing, nothing,” Jacques said quickly. “Monsieur Tremayne, Raoul will wait on you today. I shall send the wine steward immediately, also, yes? Raoul!”

The man was quickly at their side, and seemed as fascinated by Ian’s wife as Jacques had been. Marissa was wryly glad that she did not seem to disappoint, yet she was truly curious at the air of excitement she was causing.

“May I order for us all?” Ian asked politely. He was impatient, she realized. He had taken her around the city on her first day, and now he was anxious to get lunch over with and move on to business.

“Please, do,” she said, and Ian looked at Jimmy.

“Oh, aye, please do!” Jimmy said quickly, after a moment.

The wine steward poured burgundy into their crystal glasses, which Ian tasted and approved. Marissa noted with a smile that Jimmy had studied his every move, and that Mary watched Jimmy fondly as he sought to learn. Ian ordered and started to tell them about Golden Gate Park, which they had not seen. “A Japanese tea garden was erected there during the Exposition of 1894,” he said. “Perhaps the ladies will want to make an excursion one day—”

He broke off suddenly. Marissa turned to discover why.

A woman was walking toward them. She was tall and slim, with fine, delicate features, large, dark-fringed eyes, and hair so deep and lustrous a brown it was like sable. She smiled, and her chin was held elegantly high. She was dressed in mauve, and a fashionable feathered hat sat jauntily upon her head. She was elegant and sensual, and it was apparent Ian knew her very well.

And it was equally apparent that she was no dance-hall girl.

Ian stood as she approached. He did not seem wary or distressed, and Marissa felt her cheeks burning despite her determination that they should not. Ian had made no promises to her.

“Hello, Grace,” he said as the woman approached.

“Ian, dear!” The woman took his hands and rose on her toes to delicately kiss both his cheeks. Her eyes were warm, and she seemed as gentle and fragile as an angel.

Then she turned to Marissa, and her gaze was deadly.

“You must be the new Mrs. Tremayne … child. What a lovely girl, Ian. My congratulations. Oh, I am sorry. Ian has horrid manners at times, doesn’t he? Well, perhaps you don’t know him quite as well as I do yet. I’m Grace Leroux. We’re old friends.”

The woman at the station had been one thing—this woman was another. Marissa forgot that at one time she couldn’t have cared less what Ian Tremayne did with his life. She wasn’t anyone’s child, and she wasn’t about to let this sweet-faced harpy best her in any way.

She rose, offering Grace Leroux her hand, and smiling serenely. “Very, very old friends, I can see,” she said sweetly. “And indeed, my husband’s manners can be quite atrocious.” She flashed Ian what she hoped was an adoring and intimate smile. She gritted her teeth, hoping he would not step in and make a fool of her.

He did not. His brows rose, his lip curled and he watched her with growing amusement as she continued.

“Mrs. Leroux—or is it Miss?”

“Mrs.,” said the woman, her dark eyes narrowing, the hint of a hiss in the word.

“Mrs. Leroux, my friends, Mr. and Mrs. James O’Brien. Mary, Jimmy, Ian’s very old friend, Mrs. Leroux.”

Jimmy was already on his feet. Mary smiled demurely. Marissa cast a quick glance at Ian, and discovered that he seemed annoyed with the situation.

“Grace, are you staying? Would you like a chair brought?”

“Yes, what a lovely idea,” Grace agreed. Ian motioned to their waiter, who quickly brought a fifth chair and seated Grace. She nodded across the table. “Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien,” she acknowledged with little interest. She turned her back on Marissa. “Ian, the picnic for the Orphan’s Fund is next week, or have you forgotten? Our most influential businessmen will be coming during the day. I do hope that we can count on you to attend.” She turned to Marissa. “Oh, dear, it really isn’t for wives. Ian, you will be there, I hope?”

“I always support the Orphan’s Fund,” Ian said with a sigh of impatience. “Of course I’ll be there.”

“Why isn’t it for wives?” Marissa asked with a mock innocence.

“I’m curious myself,” Ian murmured, crossing his arms idly over his chest as he watched Grace.

“Well, it’s rather a workaday thing, dear. Boring, if you’re not involved. And it’s a traditional thing, really. Ian has been very involved. He usually escorts me. I am so sorry, dear,” Grace purred to Marissa. “You will forgive me for stealing your husband?”

“If I allowed you to steal my husband, I would have to forgive you,” Marissa said pleasantly. She folded her hands on the snowy white tablecloth and smiled at Mary. “Mary and I were longing to see the park, so I imagine that we’ll explore it on the same day. That way you won’t have to feel guilty about my husband, and we won’t disturb your tradition.”

Grace was still smiling, but the effort seemed to be growing difficult. She stood swiftly. “Well, we shall see,” she murmured. “Ian, dear, we’ll speak later. It was such a—surprise, meeting you,” she told Marissa. Then she waved elegantly and left the table. Marissa noted that she turned and stared at Ian moments later, and that there was cold fury in her eyes. But Ian was not paying any heed, for the waiter had brought their food.

Marissa found herself very quiet during the meal, until the subject of the picnic came up again. Mary asked about the Orphan’s Fund. Marissa watched Ian, and was startled when he suddenly turned his head and caught her in the act.

“Should we see the Golden Gate Park that day?” she asked him.

He shrugged, but didn’t look away. “If you choose. I’ve no idea what Grace’s tradition is. There is no reason you shouldn’t both attend, you and Mary. I plan to have Jimmy busy at the emporium by then.”

Marissa lowered her eyes quickly, not wanting him to see that she was inordinately pleased with his words.

Yet when they left the restaurant and Jimmy and Mary preceded them down the street, she could not help but challenge him again.

“You mentioned to the ma?tre d’ that you were married. Yet I had the feeling that Mrs. Leroux had no knowledge of me until we met.”

He shrugged. “I made luncheon reservations for myself, my wife and friends. I had no reason to inform Grace.”

“Yet you almost defended me against her.”

He case her a long, dry look. “You seemed to be defending yourself, my love. I’ve acquired a cat with claws, so it seems.”

Marissa stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and Ian turned impatiently. “I’ve an appointment this afternoon—”

“She is your mistress, isn’t she?”

“Marissa, I told you—”

“You didn’t bother to tell your mistress that you’d acquired a wife?”

“It’s really none of her business, is it?” he asked her smoothly.

“But it is. I like to be aware of the situations I find myself cast into.”

“She’s an old friend.” He grinned. “Very old, as you were so quick to tell her.”

Marissa flushed, but she felt her temper growing. “I don’t care to have lunch with your intimate old friends.”

“I didn’t invite her. Now, would you please come on?”

She didn’t move, and he suddenly caught her arm. “Come on!”

She had little choice, for he was nearly dragging her down the street. And when she would have balked again, he paused and turned to her in a sudden fury. “Damn you, girl, you’re the one determined on your private quarters!”

“Which you ignored!”

“Ask me in, then.” His eyes burned, seeming to bore into her and sweep away the rest of the busy world around them. “I told you, my love, I want you. It was a wretched discovery, but a damned true one. So my affairs, or lack of them, are quite up to you.”

“It’s not enough!” she cried, trying to shake free of him.

“What?”

“I want—” she began. “I want more than just to be wanted!” she cried out in a rush. She jerked free and hurried ahead, leaving him standing on the sidewalk, reflective, furious.

Then a slow smile crossed his face, and finally he laughed out loud.